


All I Want for Christmas

by fallingintodivinity



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 20:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13108272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/pseuds/fallingintodivinity
Summary: “Capitalism at its finest,” said Illya sourly.“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” said Napoleon cheerfully. He dodged around a burly man dressed in a Santa suit and a salesgirl whose arms were piled high with rolls of wrapping paper. “It’s Christmas, after all.”“I do not celebrate Christmas,” said Illya.





	All I Want for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackyMedan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyMedan/gifts).



> Written for JackyMedan, who requested Napoleon/Illya and the H/C prompt: “Because I care about you!”
> 
> Just a bit of Christmas fluff for our boys. Happy holidays, everyone!

 

 

Macy’s was an absolutely nightmare at Christmas.

It was actually two days before Christmas, and Napoleon _loved_ Christmas, but even _he_ had to admit that doing one’s Christmas shopping in Macy’s two days before the actual day was not the brightest idea he’d ever had. The store was jam-packed with tourists gawking at the Christmas decorations, hordes of eager shoppers enthusiastically digging through the racks of sale items, and multitudes of harried shoppers who, like Napoleon, had shirked their gift-buying obligations until the last possible minute and were now paying the price.

Napoleon glanced behind him at his partner – his very _Russian_ partner, who neither liked nor celebrated Christmas, and who had surprised Napoleon by acquiescing to Napoleon’s request for company on his shopping trip. Said partner was watching, with a mixture of fascination and horror, as an elderly customer at the jewelry counter offered the sweet young thing hanging off his arm a choice between a gaudy ruby-encrusted necklace, or an even gaudier emerald-and-topaz bracelet.

“Capitalism at its finest,” said Illya sourly.

“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” said Napoleon cheerfully. He dodged around a burly man dressed in a Santa suit and a salesgirl whose arms were piled high with rolls of wrapping paper. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

“I do not celebrate Christmas,” said Illya. He glanced at the jewelry counter again. “Also, she should choose the rubies. Emeralds do not go well with her skin tone.”

“You should’ve been a fashion designer instead of a spy,” teased Napoleon. He paused. “Anyway. D’you know what you _should_ celebrate, though?”

“What?” said Illya warily.

“You should celebrate,” said Napoleon, “being safely here in the middle of Macy’s, with nothing more pressing to worry about than how long we’ll have to wait in line for the checkout counter – ”

“I estimate that we will be in line for _at least_ fifty minutes,” Illya pronounced ominously.

“ – instead,” Napoleon said, soldiering on determinedly, “of where we spent Christmas _last_ year, which, if you recall, was in a miserable little dungeon somewhere in Morocco after that mission went south. _And_ you had a broken ankle, and my left arm was useless since _someone had shot me_.”

Illya’s expression managed to convey that he ranked Macy’s and the Moroccan dungeon at roughly the same levels of enjoyment – or lack thereof – and even then only because he’d also had to suffer the indignity and mild inconvenience of his broken ankle while they’d been in Morocco.

Sensing he was losing the argument, Napoleon prudently decided to distract Illya by grabbing an item off the nearest rack, which happened to be a long coat in a virulent shade of green. “What do you think,” he said. “Would my aunt like this?”

 _Are you serious,_ said Illya’s expression.

Napoleon hastily returned the coat and proceeded to the next rack.

 

***

 

They finally settled on a pair of beautiful cashmere-lined gloves for Napoleon’s aunt, made it to the checkout counter – which, true to Illya’s estimate, had taken slightly under an hour – and wearily made their way back to Illya’s apartment.

Illya’s arms were full of the groceries and bottles of wine Napoleon had insisted on buying to cook Illya and himself a nice Christmas dinner, so Napoleon fished his partner’s keys out from Illya’s back pocket and unlocked Illya’s apartment door.

“I’ll drop the gloves off at my aunt’s place tomorrow,” Napoleon said, looking over his shoulder at his partner as he pushed Illya’s apartment door open, “then after that, we can – what's wrong?”

Illya had glanced unconcernedly into his apartment as Napoleon had opened the door, but now his eyes had gone wide. Sharply, he grabbed the back of Napoleon’s expensive coat and yanked his partner away from the door, ignoring Napoleon’s cry of surprise.

That was when Illya’s apartment exploded.

 

***

 

Napoleon had borne the brunt of the explosion since he’d been standing in front, but the bomb had been a small, homemade affair, so thanks to Illya’s quick reaction, Napoleon hadn’t been as badly hurt as he could’ve been otherwise.

Napoleon spent most of Christmas Eve in U.N.C.L.E. Medical. His larger cuts had been stitched up the previous night and his scrapes and bruises had been tended to, but they’d insisted on keeping him overnight for observation despite his repeated assurances that yes, he was fine and no, he didn’t have a concussion.

Illya drifted in and out of the room Napoleon had been assigned in Medical, sternly ordering Napoleon to lie down and rest and not leave until he was allowed to, which Napoleon strongly felt was exceedingly unfair, given that the last time Illya had been in Napoleon’s place, he’d given the U.N.C.L.E. medical personnel the slip once their backs had been turned and gone straight back to work.

He strongly suspected that Illya was harboring some kind of misplaced guilt for Napoleon having been injured while trying to enter _Illya’s_ apartment, and was working out his guilt by terrorizing U.N.C.L.E.’s entire research department into finding out how their would-be murderer had gotten past the security system in Illya’s apartment to plant the bomb, and also making damn sure that it wouldn’t happen again.

In fact, knowing his partner, Illya was probably utilizing the time where he _wasn’t_ hovering over Napoleon to personally reinstall the security systems in both his and Napoleon’s apartments, or quite possibly singlehandedly design a new and better security system from scratch.

Napoleon quietly bided his time until Illya disappeared from his bedside again, then changed out of his hospital gown and back into his own clothes and snuck back upstairs to his office, because if Illya could get away with doing this every single time he got injured, then Napoleon damn well could, too.

He’d barely been in his office ten minutes before Illya appeared in the office and hauled him back down to Medical.

Napoleon curled up under the scratchy hospital sheets and sulked.

 

***

 

He was finally released from Medical late on Christmas Eve, after which Illya came to pick him up and drive him back to his apartment. His partner had indeed installed an entirely new security system in Napoleon’s apartment in the _one day_ Napoleon had spent in Medical, and when they reached Napoleon’s apartment, handed him the new key without preamble and showed him how to disable the new system.

It was all so entirely _Illya_ that Napoleon, overcome with a sudden surge of affection for his prickly, brilliant partner, couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to throw his arms around Illya and hug him. He pushed his apartment door open, Illya close behind him, and gasped.

His apartment had been decorated with strings of twinkling Christmas lights, gently blinking red, blue and green. A large Christmas tree he definitely didn’t recall purchasing proudly occupied a corner of the large living room, festively decorated in tinsel and sparkling fairy lights. Above the mantel hung a large Christmas wreath, white and gold ribbons twining in and out of the pine needles, bunches of tiny red berries tucked next to pale, delicate flowerbuds.

Napoleon’s mouth dropped open. He turned to Illya, who stared back at him, expressionless.

 _This is beautiful_ , Napoleon wanted to say. _Thank you for all the effort you put into doing this for me, and how did you even find the time to do it while installing that new security system?_

What came out of his mouth instead was an accusing, “you don’t even _like_ Christmas!”

Illya sighed in a long-suffering manner, then glared at him with deep irritation. “It’s because I _care_ about you, idiot!” he snapped, then clapped his hand over his mouth in abject horror.

Napoleon looked at his partner, the corners of his mouth turning up. He thought of Illya’s willingness to accompany him on his Christmas shopping despite disliking 1) crowds, 2) shopping and 3) Christmas in general, eyed the brand new security system carefully and painstakingly installed throughout his apartment, looked at the twinkling Christmas lights and the majestic Christmas tree, then looked back at his partner. The tips of Illya’s ears were red, and he was glaring ferociously at Napoleon, as if the whole thing were Napoleon’s fault.

Well. There was clearly only one course of action from here. Napoleon grinned mischievously at Illya, stepping close to his partner. Illya reared back and stared at Napoleon with deep suspicion. Napoleon followed him until he had Illya backed up against the mantel.

“I care about you too, you know,” he said with a warm smile, and then he kissed Illya.

When they finally parted some minutes later, Napoleon nodded at the wreath hanging behind Illya. “Did you _intentionally_ buy a mistletoe wreath?”

“What?” Illya turned to stare at the wreath accusingly. “I didn’t know it was mistletoe,” he grumbled.

Napoleon laughed. “Well, let’s consider it a happy coincidence, then.” He leaned in so their foreheads were touching, nudging his partner gently. “C’mon. Christmas isn’t so bad, is it?”

“I suppose it isn’t,” Illya admitted grudgingly, then possessively pulled Napoleon close for another kiss.

 

 

End.

 


End file.
